


we went through fire and water

by Ellis



Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:51:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellis/pseuds/Ellis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Be a good chap and fill in the paperwork for me, eh, Mr Rook?” The clipboard is pushed back in his direction, this time accompanied by a pen. “Folks have to fill it in themselves now. You think you’re suffering from budget cuts—try running Purgatory!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	we went through fire and water

**Author's Note:**

> Being Human doesn't belong to me.
> 
> I blame Christina for this. I blame her for everything.

“Ah,” somebody says, pulling him to his feet and thrusting what seems to be a clipboard full of paperwork at him, “you’re here. Congratulations or condolences—which would you prefer?”

 

He blinks. A bright-eyed man is peering up at him from behind a desk, tapping a pen as he speaks. “Well?” His voice is sharp, but has a quality of kindness about it, and his eyes go from the clipboard and back to his face again—several times.

 

He blinks again. Looks down at the clipboard in his hands, sees that he’s still wearing his suit. His throat is dry and his chest aches like he’s just been in a car crash, or had the full weight of a building collapse on top of him.

 

“I’ll go with congratulations,” the man says, lips twitching and pulling back into a smile. He doesn’t have many teeth. “Now, let me see… yes, here you are—” His gaze shifts to a computer and he leans forward until his face is practically inches from the screen. He even has the audacity to squint.

 

Dominic can’t help but feel he needs to invest in a pair of glasses.

 

“None of that from you, young sir,” the man chides, fixing him with a stern look. “I may be a receptionist, but by Jove if I don’t make use of what little power I have.”

 

Dominic stares. Quietly places the clipboard down on the desk, and pushes it back towards the man. “I believe there’s been a mistake,” he says. What else is there to say?

 

“Nope,” the receptionist says, his stern look melting away into another smile. “No mistake! Was the journey smooth? Sometimes people suffer from turbulence—not you, I hope.” He peers at him again, still smiling. “Hm. You do look a bit worse for wear, but that can’t be helped under the circumstances.”

 

Dominic frowns and adjusts his suit, tucking his shirt in and straightening his tie.

 

“Be a good chap and fill in the paperwork for me, eh, Mr Rook?” The clipboard is pushed back in his direction, this time accompanied by a pen. “Folks have to fill it in themselves now. You think _you’re_ suffering from budget cuts—try running Purgatory!”

 

 _Purgatory_.

 

His mind seizes on the word and grasps it between flimsy fingers, as if trying to turn it into something he can understand. A part of him understands it already: purgatory is the waiting room of souls, the place of judgement, but some part of him, a miniscule amount, fights this. He is in the living room; he is—

 

“Afraid not,” the receptionist chimes in again. “Well, your body might be, but _you_ …” He trails off and suddenly looks thoughtful. “Take a seat, Dominic. It’s all right if I call you that, isn’t it? We’re all friends here. Would you like a cup of tea?”

 

Dominic peers around at the rows of chairs, some vacant, others filled. He picks up the clipboard with an air of hesitancy, tucks the pen into his breast pocket, and lingers by the desk for a moment longer.

 

“Yes,” he says eventually, an edge to his voice that he lacks in his spine, “tea would be nice.”

 

“Good.” The man nods and gestures for him to find a seat. “If you need any assistance, do let me know. I’ll have your tea with you shortly. We used to have armchairs, you know, and then there were _budget cuts_.” He wrinkles his nose.

 

Dominic sympathises with him almost immediately. He finds a seat surrounded by other empty seats, props the clipboard on his knee, and peers at the first page.

 

Someone has filled out his name for him. How thoughtful of them—how presumptuous.

 

He lists his former occupation as ‘classified’. He lists his age as ‘N/A’. He reluctantly fills in his eye colour and hair colour, and leaves the names of his parents blank. He wonders why whoever filled out his name didn’t bother to fill out these things as well; perhaps their budget cuts are simply dire, or whoever was allocated the job of filling out forms did the bare minimum.

 

He is inexplicably reminded of certain employees of the department.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the receptionist approaching with tea. The teaspoon remains in the mug, which has a crack up the side, and the receptionist is shuffling along and wearing slippers. This would be less disturbing if he weren’t also wearing a suit.

 

Dominic isn’t sure if he wants to scream or get up and leave. The latter option would be the most professional, yet there doesn’t appear to be any way out. There are no doors, only windows, and nobody else seems incensed by the receptionist wearing a black suit with pink slippers.

 

He accepts the tea and barely manages to keep his mouth shut. “Thank you,” he murmurs, keeping his attention on the paperwork. Then: “This paperwork—”

 

“Come now,” the receptionist says, craning his neck and peering at what Dominic’s already written, “we already _know_ all the answers, so there’s no need to be coy.” He taps at Dominic’s former occupation, at the names of his parents. “Listing them simply makes it easier for all of us.”

 

“It’s unnecessary information,” Dominic says, blowing on his tea and stirring the teaspoon around out of habit. “It’s a waste of ink.”

 

“Nothing’s ever a waste,” the receptionist mutters. He has a nametag that reads EDGAR in gilded print. “You know, Dominic, your father was very much of the same mind set when he passed through some—oh, how long ago was it? Goodness me, let me think… ten… fifteen years ago, I believe.” He blinks owlishly and smiles. “How time flies when you’re making tea for everyone.”

 

His stomach lurches and his gut clenches at the same time as his fingers tighten on the handle of the mug. “I see.” Dominic doesn’t mean for his voice to be so clipped, but it is and it’s noticeable because Edgar raises his eyebrows and then frowns.

 

“I forget that some subjects are sensitive,” Edgar amends. Dominic supposes this is his way of apologising. He says nothing. “Needless to say,” Edgar adds, “he isn’t here anymore.”

 

Dominic smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “How long is the average waiting time?”

 

“It depends,” Edgar answers. “You died in the line of duty, so you’ll get to skip most of the queue. I daresay you died doing a wonderful thing, which puts you… almost at the top.”

 

“A wonderful thing?”

 

“Possession isn’t wonderful, I agree.” Edgar shrugs and takes the seat next to Dominic, all too friendly for his liking. “But you _did_ die in the line of duty. And though God may be all too fond of budget cuts, he also recognises that… you know. Being possessed by the Devil is something that deserves a little recognition.” He casts a sidelong glance at Dominic. “What was it like?”

 

He doesn’t remember. No—well—he remembers shooting Hatch. “I wouldn’t recommend it,” he answers dryly.

 

“Ah, well.” Edgar’s hand finds its way onto his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “What is it your lot say? No care, all responsibility? You get a reward for _that_ in Purgatory, at least.”

 

Dominic doesn’t say anything for a while, tapping his pen against the clipboard.

 

“I wasn’t aware Purgatory offers rewards.” He sniffs and fills in a few more boxes, all too aware of Edgar’s presence at his side. “The Bible gave the impression that Purgatory remained impartial.”

 

Edgar snorts and mutters something under his breath. “The Bible was written by _humans_. What do _you_ know of impartiality?”

 

He considers this. “I suppose—”

 

“You twist and bend words until they fit your own meanings. Your impartiality is looking at something from the outside until it strikes a chord with you or horrifies you to the point where you have to shut it in the dark. You don’t like anything that resonates too closely with you. When you think about how God made you to be the pinnacle of His creations—the best of the best, the _crème de la crème_ —you fell short.”

 

Dominic doesn’t believe in God, but he doesn’t say anything. Here is Purgatory. He has been possessed by the Devil. It stands to reason that God must exist too.

 

“Some of you didn’t,” Edgar adds softly, staring at nothing. “But most of you—yeah, well. It’s no wonder He’s gone back to gardening and doing crosswords. Imagine having to listen to the prayers of the things you wish you could forget. And not just once a week, or not just once a day—no! Every minute of every _single_ day. Humanity’s prayers don’t even come with an off switch.”

 

Dominic thinks—I never prayed.

 

Edgar fixes him with a particularly flat, venomous look. “You can lie to yourself all you like, Mr Rook,” he says, snatching his paperwork out of Dominic’s hands and starting to fill it out himself, “but you prayed when you were little, and for some reason someone liked to pray for _you_.”

 

He narrows his eyes. “I did no such thing.”

 

“You probably didn’t realise you were praying,” Edgar says, his face softening. “But every time you thought ‘make it stop’ or ‘please not today’—well, that’s praying, isn’t it? You were hoping for a miracle.” He pauses, considering, eyes on Dominic’s face. “You sit and enjoy your tea. Lord knows you deserve it.”

 

“Does He?” Dominic asks, tilting his head.

 

Edgar shrugs, plucking his pen from Dominic’s fingers. “Oh, He knows. He’d congratulate you himself, only he’s finishing up a particularly tricky crossword—and _besides_ , there’s someone you have to meet first.”

 

“Ah,” says Dominic, surreptitiously looking for a way out. “I see.”

 

Edgar pulls a comb out from the inner pocket of his suit. “You might want this,” he says. “They could be disappointed if you look anything other than your usual self.”

 

Dominic accepts the comb and hesitantly touches his hair. Yes, he thinks. It does feel a little out of place.

 

 

-

 

 

“You can bring your tea with you,” Edgar says, tucking the clipboard under his arm. He rises with vitality Dominic would expect from a younger man, but he doesn’t say anything because this is Purgatory and, well, it’s _Purgatory_.

 

He carries his tea past rows of faces engaged in conversations with the people beside him, most of them ignoring him. Some smile at him, some stare into nothing. He steps over a child crawling out from under a seat and ignores the lurch in his chest at the realisation there are children here as well. What else did he expect?

 

Edgar pauses at a door that he doesn’t remember seeing before. He pulls out a bunch of keys from his trouser pocket, winks at Dominic, and taps his nose.

 

“There are doors here,” he says lightly, smiling like it’s funny, “but it’s easier for folks if they don’t see them. Imagine staring at a door while you’re waiting to leave. It’d drive you crazy, dead or not. So people only see a door when they’re called up—otherwise it’s all windows and other people.”

 

He understands—somewhat, at least. There’s a system here beyond what’s being shown to him.

 

Edgar opens the door without unlocking it. Dominic reasons it may never have been locked in the first place. “Go on in,” he murmurs, touching Dominic’s shoulder in a way that makes his heart twist, “they’re waiting.”

 

“Is it my father?” he finds himself asking.

 

“No,” Edgar says. “See for yourself.”

 

 

-

 

 

He steps through the door and into his flat.

 

The television is in the same place. So is the coffee table, the window, the curtains. A faint smell of cleaning products hangs in the air—he breathes in deeply and catches the smell of something else. Something… _cinnamon_. The television is on, filling the room with noise, and in the distance there is the sound of the kettle boiling.

 

He hesitates. Behind him, the door closes.

 

The noise surrounds him and he moves gingerly towards the settee, falling short of it, staring at the coffee table without really seeing it. He can’t fathom why the kettle is boiling.

 

Another door opens and he can hear footsteps. Someone is humming along to a song he knows but is currently unable to recognise; he puts his tea down on the coffee table. His hands curl into fists and then he relaxes them, pushing his fingers into the pockets of his trousers and fighting the urge to pace.

 

“Bloody hell,” somebody says—except it’s not somebody, because he knows the voice. He knows every possible tone, every way that every word is pronounced. “Took you long enough to get here, didn’t it?”

 

The noise of the television dies. He looks up.

 

Natasha grins at him from the doorway to the kitchen. “Hi,” she says. “I guess you can see I’ve made myself comfortable.”

 

He looks around properly for the first time; there are magazines on the coffee table, crumbs on the carpet, empty cups of tea on the windowsill. And yet words fail him; he has not uttered a single noise since entering the room, and manners and decorum dictate that he should at least say something, but nothing is coming to mind.

 

“Do you want tea?” she’s saying, approaching him slowly. “You might want to sit down first. Then I can explain everything.”

 

Frowning at her, he sits. What else is there for him to do? He rises a few seconds later, brushes crumbs off the settee and onto the floor, then sits again. For some reason he’s thinking about where he last left his hoover, and whether or not it would be acceptable for him to begin vacuuming his flat while she makes tea. This strikes him as venturing into comfortable, domestic territory, which he isn’t altogether comfortable with.

 

He rests his hands on his knees and sizes her up in relative silence. Then:

 

“You’re in my flat.”

 

Natasha laughs. “If you want to look at it like that, yeah. I’m… we’re in Purgatory. But—yes, this is your flat. Sort of.”

 

“Do you not have a place of your own even in Purgatory?” he asks lightly, eyes trained on her face. He expects her to display signs of discomfort, but instead she shakes her head gently and looks at him with something akin to affection.

 

“Let me make tea first. I’ll explain how it works once we’re sitting down.”

 

He sighs. Loudly.

 

She shoots him a look and vanishes into the kitchen.

 

 

-

 

 

The thing about Purgatory, she says when they’re comfortable and sitting side-by-side on the settee, is that it’s not just an area where you wait to get judged. It’s a waiting room—and not just because you wait to find out where you’re going. You can wait for other people in Purgatory even if you’ve already been told where you end up.

 

He sits with his fingertips pressing into the rim of his best china, thoughtfully selected for him by Natasha. She’s even found his best saucers, though his cup and saucer don’t match. He wonders if she’s done that on purpose. Probably.

 

She’s looking at him and her body is full of tension. She’s leaning into him, shoulders hunched a bit, while he sits with his back straight, staring at the blank television screen.

 

Eventually he says, “Do you know where you end up?”

 

“Heaven,” she answers. “Edgar sorted me as soon as I arrived. Personal victims of the Devil get some perks, it seems.” She smiles, but there’s a touch of anxiety to her mouth.

 

“Ah,” he says. He’s still staring at the screen, though his eyes find her face from time to time. Softer: “I see.”

 

She sips at her tea. There is a moment of silence between them. It’s comfortable.

 

“I saw you die,” she says quickly, then looks away like she’s ashamed. “The—the television lets us watch life happen. I saw… well, you know. Everything. Um.” She hesitates and their gazes find each other. There’s sadness in her eyes that he’s never seen before. In a whisper, she says, “did it hurt?”

 

He thinks about it. He can’t remember much; he remembers the feeling of his veins on fire, and the Devil flicking through his memories like they were nothing. _That_ hurt. “Somewhat,” he says. “I know yours hurt.” Matter-of-factly, if only because he knows the statistics of how long it takes to bleed to death.

 

She lowers her head for a second, mouth turning down. “Hal tried to save me.”

 

“Ah.”

 

He digests the information quietly. He swallows a mouthful of tea and looks at the carpet. “I thought you might have learnt to tidy up after yourself.”

 

“No,” she says lightly, a smile in her voice. “I knew you’d be coming sooner or later.”

 

Suddenly his throat is tight. He looks at his tea. “You saw me die.”

 

“Yes.” She pauses. “You died well.”

 

He looks at her and frowns. “Excuse me?”

 

“It’s—it’s something we say down here. You died well. It’s—you know, it’s… if it’s a noble death, or a good way to go, we say you died well. At least you didn’t die—you know—on the toilet or something. Because there was one woman I was talking to—she did—and I had to listen to all the details; she had diarrhoea, I think, at least that’s what I reckon she said she had, because she never specified, but the amount of detail—”

 

“Natasha,” he says softly, gently, “there’s a time and a place for stories like that.”

 

“And Purgatory isn’t one of them?” she offers, grinning.

 

“And Purgatory is not one of them,” he confirms. He shifts in his seat, lets himself sink into the settee a bit instead of perching on the edge like he’s looking for an escape route.

 

“Do you want a biscuit?” she asks suddenly, glancing towards the kitchen.

 

“No.” Then: “Thank you for offering.”

 

She tilts her head. “Dominic,” she says softly, and he looks at her in silence, “is it true—what you told the Devil—is it true?”

 

“Yes,” he says, without thinking about it, without needing to. The familiar ache in his chest is back; in his mind’s eye, he is nine years old and full of anger and a curious sense of freedom. His mouth twists. “I can’t quite recall what made me say it out loud. Am I to assume you witnessed that as well?”

 

She nods once. A small nod, but a nod all the same. “I’m sorry,” she says.

 

He doesn’t know what she’s apologising for, and says as much.

 

“For…” but she trails off; maybe she doesn’t know what she’s apologising for either. “For watching you. I know how much you value your privacy.”

 

Surprising himself, he shrugs. He finds that he understands—not fully, but a little. “I kept tabs on you when you were younger,” he offers. “To make sure you were safe.”

 

“That’s not what I was—” Natasha cuts herself off and considers what he’s saying. “I guess—yeah. I guess that’s what I was doing.”

 

His mouth twitches. He lets himself smile. “I also owe you an apology.”

 

The way she looks at him is so full of trust that it almost makes him want to get up and leave. She doesn’t say anything, just keeps on staring at him, waiting for him to say something else.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and the words are alien in how genuine they are, in how much it means for him to finally say it, in the twisting of his chest and the dryness of his throat. He takes another sip of tea just because. “Using you as bait was inconsiderate of me. It was unacceptable, callous, and—”

 

“And?” she whispers into the looming silence.

 

“And.” He looks at the ceiling. “In the wake of recent events, I… Tasha, I was sincere when I said you and I were something like family. That I put you at risk for the sake of my department—”

 

“I understand,” she says. He opens his mouth to say something else but suddenly her hand is covering his lips and she’s staring at him to keep him quiet. “I’ve had time to think about it. I was angry for a long time—for at least a month—after… you know. I mean— _wow_ , sending me on a mission to befriend a werewolf and let a vampire feed from me? That was heartless, Dominic. That was really— _God_ , sometimes I _still_ get angry. I get that some of it was trust—you trusted me to do the job—but some of it was… me… being young, and being bait.”

 

His fingers close around her hand and prise it away from his mouth. “I apologise.”

 

“I’m not done,” she snaps, but her voice is soft. “I know your department meant a lot to you. Sometimes I think it meant more to you than me, but—in the end, I went along with it. I knew the risks—I just… didn’t think it would end the way it did.”

 

The quiet that follows sees him release her hand. She smiles sadly at him; he can’t say anything because his chest is constricting and the realisation of what he has done is weighing upon him with renewed vigour.

 

“And then,” says Natasha, “Edgar and I spoke about it for a long time. I’d sit with him behind that desk and we’d talk about it while I filled out forms for him. I even got to do yours.”

 

Ah, he thinks. That explains the laziness.

 

“I am terribly sorry that things ended the way they did.” He puts his tea down. “It was never my intention to see you harmed—I was confident I had control of the situation. I never anticipated that you would… that _I_ would…” He grasps for words he cannot find and words his throat cannot utter. “I never intended for you to suffer.”

 

“I know,” Natasha says. She finds his hand and covers it with her own. Her fingers are warm; her skin is soft. “Thank you,” she adds, lacing her fingers with his. “I liked my gravestone.”

 

He raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t think—”

 

“Those the gods love die young? How poetic.” Her smile has a teasing bite to it.

 

He frowns. “In the circumstances it seemed prudent—” He pauses. “I don’t believe I ever taught y—”

 

“Edgar told me what it said.”

 

He makes a noise of reluctant approval.

 

Natasha looks down at their cups. “More tea?”

 

 

-

 

 

They do a lot of talking and not a lot of anything else. Purgatory suits them in this way. They talk about Natasha’s school career, how she preferred trouble to anything else, how he’d had a knack for appearing at just the right moment (“did you put a tracker in me when I was asleep?” she asks, half serious, half joking), and so on, and so forth.

 

Edgar knocks twice.

 

The first time is to see if they’re doing okay, if they need anything, if Dominic wants to check over his paperwork and see that everything’s been filled out correctly. He goes away again shortly after, whistling a tune and jangling his keys.

 

The second time he knocks and then opens the door without waiting to be invited in. He peers at them watching television; Dominic has loosened his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and Natasha has her feet on the coffee table, despite Dominic constantly pushing them off and muttering that there’s a place for feet and that’s on the _floor_.

 

“Am I interrupting?” he asks, voice deceptively cheery.

 

They’re watching Bargain Hunt.

 

“No,” Natasha calls back, half glaring at Dominic as she adds, “there’s no way they’re going to sell that for a profit—”

 

He sounds smug when he replies, “you clearly don’t know how much quality china sells for.”

 

“It would appear that I am,” Edgar murmurs, now standing behind the settee. It makes Natasha jump. “Now that I have your attention—” he taps Dominic on the shoulder until he reluctantly tears his eyes away from the television long enough to look at him, “—I can be the bearer of good news.”

 

Dominic raises his eyebrows.

 

“Mr Rook, good fellow, your paperwork has been processed and you’re free to move on.” Edgar accompanies this statement with an enthusiastic gesturing of his hands towards the door. “As is Ms Myles, of course, since she’s been waiting for you for—three months, I believe.”

 

Natasha looks at Dominic. He looks back at her.

 

“Where am I going?” he asks quietly, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

 

Edgar smiles. “Right through that door. Natasha will take the lead.”

 

“And where is Natasha—”

 

“Heaven. With you,” she says softly, so softly that Dominic thinks he hasn’t heard her at first. “As if I’d let _you_ go to Hell after everything you’ve done for me— _and_ after you saved the world.”

 

He thinks about this for a moment. Edgar is still smiling, and now Natasha is smiling.

 

“I see,” he says. “Is there cleanliness and order in Heaven?”

 

“I suspect there won’t be for long,” Edgar muses, eyeing the collective mess on Natasha’s side of the coffee table. “Still, that’s what vacuum cleaners are for. You’re nothing if not prudent in your desire for cleanliness and order, is that not right, Dominic?”

 

Natasha frowns and Dominic’s mouth lifts upwards into a smile.

 

“Quite right,” he says. “Quite right.”


End file.
